THOMAS'S POV
Florence didn't have the jagged, survivalist edge of St. Jude's Key, and it certainly didn't have the sterile, soul-crushing beige of the CSI offices in D.C.
It was a city built on the concept of permanent stone that had outlasted empires, art that had seen the rise and fall of a dozen star chambers. But for me, the city was mostly a series of tactical challenges. The narrow cobblestone streets were a nightmare for my recovering hip, and the sheer volume of tourists made maintaining a clean perimeter nearly impossible.
"You're doing it again, Thomas," Enzo said, his voice a smooth, melodic silk that cut through my mental grid of potential sniper nests.
We were sitting at a small, marble-topped table at a café tucked into a corner of the Piazza della Signoria. The late afternoon sun was hitting the David the replica, anyway, and the air smelled of roasting coffee and expensive leather.
